


Artcross - A Warcross Fanfiction

by booksareourlove



Category: Warcross - Marie Lu
Genre: AU, Art, Emika Chen is a Lesbian, F/F, Fluff, also an art exhibition, marie lu, warcross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksareourlove/pseuds/booksareourlove
Summary: Self portrait was written next to the painting black on white. The artist’s name was Keira, just Keira, dated 2017. How did she manage to make the painting look like it had gathered dust for over five hundred years in some private collection?





	Artcross - A Warcross Fanfiction

**Author's Note:**

> the actual cover of warcross is in rainbow?? emika's hair is rainbow?? there are non white non hetero characters in the book?? so WHY IS EMIKA STRAIGHT????

**Artcross**  
_An Exhibition by Henka University  
in Collaboration with Brooklyn School of Arts_

The painting showed a girl, whose dark hair seemed to suck in all the light of the indigo blue background like a black hole. The portrait looked old, the colour dry and cracked, the face of the dark skinned girl covered in cobwebs. The blue in broken pieces fading into black, her dark hair falling into eyes containing an abyss darker than the universe.

_Self portrait_ was written next to the painting black on white. The artist’s name was Keira, just Keira, dated 2017. How did she manage to make the painting look like it had gathered dust for over five hundred years in some private collection?

Emika caught herself wondering why she was even here, at an exhibition of young artists from both university and a rundown High School in Brooklyn, when she should be trying to study for her English exam she already hated. And yet, she came here. Half of the paintings were graffiti drawings, the others paintings of night skies full of stars and galaxies and fantasy worlds. And then there was the mysterious painting by Keira.

Suddenly her mouth was dry and there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room with the too many faceless people who understood more about art then Emika ever would. Her father would have liked it here. He would have known what to say about each painting, probably been able to see its brush strokes and interpret perfectly what the artist was intending to tell. Maybe she just missed _him,_ maybe she had hoped to find him here. She headed for the exit, almost running, but slowed. Everybody seemed to move like in a trance, and Emika didn’t want to receive more attention than she already did with her dyed rainbow hair, ragged clothing and old skate board strapped to her backpack.

The cold evening breeze in her face was soothing. Breathing in and out slowly she walked past the small groups of smoking visitors, who were spitting on the ground and updating their newsfeeds in regular intervals. It wasn’t yet midnight.

Her feet carried her across the street and down the stairs to the riverbank. The poor light didn’t reach the graffiti on the walls or the trash on the side of the small way, but Emika felt safe. This was her city. Her river. The place she went to when everything else was too much.

Slowly she walked along the river, listening to the miniature waves crash against the shore. It smelled like rain, even though the sky was cloudless and she even spotted some stars. The paintings in the gallery were well done and beautiful, but even though she couldn’t make out many stars - thanks, light pollution – the real night sky was the most beautiful. Emika lowered her gaze to the way in front of her, into the shadow under the bridge. Her steps echoed noticeably despite the moving traffic above, and a figure whose feet were dangling above the water looked up.

From somewhere, a light fell in and Emika recognized the girl from the self portrait. Dark skin, dark hair and a reflecting white shirt. Keira. Then it was dark again, the light gone as fast as it had come. Keira was as still as a statue.

Emika remembered how to breathe. She sharply breathed in. “Hi,” she said, but it sounded more like the wind sighed at her failed attempt of life. She cleared her throat. “Hi,” she tried again.

Keira smiled widely. “Hi, my name is Keira.”

“I know,” Emila answered and stopped. Oh. “I mean, because I was just in the exhibition and there I saw your painting and that was a self portrait and next to it was your name and I...” she stopped. Felt a bit like sinking into the ground. Moving to Australia suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Warmth spread her neck up and into her face. Surely it was too dark for Keira to notice that?

The artist laughed slowly. It was a tender sound, light as air and happy and not at all mocking. “Wow. That’s never happened to me before.” She winked. “Am I famous now?”

“Uh,” said Emika. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she put them into her pockets, but the stupid jean didn’t have any pockets, because women’s clothing generally doesn’t have pockets –

Keira gestured, “sit down with me? So, you were at the exhibition?”

Emika sat down carefully, far enough to not feel the other girl’s warmth, but she couldn’t do anything against the cold that was seeping though her jeans. “Mhmh,” she confirmed.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t understand much about art. Your painting stood out, no idea why. By the way, why aren’t you there?” she added when Keira draped herself in silence once again.

“Too many people,” Keira met Emika’s eyes, “and I don’t even know anymore why I signed up for the project in the first place.”

Only then did Emika notice the sketchbook and pencil in Keira’s lap. The open page was blank.

“What’s yellow, has one arm and can’t swim?” she asked, to fill in the silence in lack of anything better to say. The cars were humming somewhere above.

The artist laughed out loud, put her sketchbook to her other side and turned towards Emika. “What do you even do in your free time, besides stalking celebrities like me and then ask them bad jokes like that?”

Emika tried to look offended, but grinned. “I save the world, obviously! And I listen to music. I also like video games.”

For a moment they both smiled, then Keira shook her head. “An excavator, right?” she asked a bit downcast.

“An excavator,” Emika confirmed in the same voice.

“I used to play video games,” Keira tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “but now I’m usually drawing or writing blogs about equal rights and feminism and why Christopher Street Day is important. Hashtag life on the internet.”

“Sounds like the kind of stuff I would read.”

“You’re beautiful, do you know that?”

“I – wait, what?”

“The rainbow hair makes your eyes look like the sun itself is inside them.”

“You’re the first person who ever said something nice about my eyes.”

“And because so many people are total lost cases I am not in the exhibition right now. The river does not have weird ideas of beauty ideals.”

“Keira?”

“Yes?”

“You’re… stunning. And the most talented artist I know. And...”

Keira kissed her.

Whatever Emika had wanted to say, it turned to nothing. Everything turned to nothing. The earth stopped circling around the sun, and the stars shone brighter than ever before. She found herself kissing back, leaning in, reaching out, and aching for warmth.

“I’m Emika, by the way,” she whispered.

For the first time since her father’s death she smiled because she was really, truly happy.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come scream with me about emika's heterosexuality.


End file.
